Surrender
by ournoisyhearts
Summary: Sebastian has lost, but it takes some choice words from one Nicholas Duval to finally render the rising of his white flag. Post 3x11. Nickbastian friendship.


**Surrender**

_You might be a big fish _  
_In a little pond _  
_Doesn't mean you've won _  
_'Cause along may come _  
_A bigger one_

* * *

Sebastian misses his grandmother more than he'd like to admit.

She was one those women who would offer their spare change in line at the grocery store, or would drag her grandkids into baking with her on the weekends ('everyone should know how to make sugar cookies, Sebastian,' she would murmur as she mixed the eggs in with the flour). Her eyes radiated kindness, and the wrinkles around her mouth were from smiling far too often. All of the neighbors knew who she was, because she would invite them over for dinner on the weekends.

She was storybook material, Sebastian's grandmother. He's pretty sure that no one ever had a bad thing to say about her, and that when she passed away, it was knowing she was loved by everyone.

Her husband, Sebastian's father's father, had left while his son was still in high school. His grandmother had been forced to work three jobs just to put Mr. Smythe through college, but she never complained, except when she was joking about it as she told stories to Sebastian.

_Your father. Always such a darn hassle. _And then she would laugh, and Sebastian would laugh, too, because how could this gentle, loving woman have raised a man like his father?

She called Sebastian every week. While he was in Paris, they stayed in contact, and he loved talking to her, speaking about his new school and his new surroundings and the new people. Meanwhile, she told him about Mr. Robertson's Dachshund next door, the walk she took the previous evening, or the fruit she picked up at the farmer's market. It was nice, her voice filtering through the receiver, giving him some sense of comfort and _home_.

But now she was gone.

Until the time of her death, Sebastian hadn't really _felt_ anything. He had been raised to be strong, able to stand on his own without fear or sadness or worry. His father's constant absence had become normal, something that Sebastian simply adapted to. He'd never really minded being alone, but maybe that was because he always knew that he had his grandmother, out there somewhere and willing to talk. Once that was ripped away from him, it was like a punch in the gut, knocking all of the air from his lungs and leaving him winded. It was a struggle just to get back on his feet, to push past the pain and the utter despair that threatened to consume him.

She was _gone._

He swears he can still hear her voice, sometimes. Singing gently into his ear, humming along to an old, unrecognizable tune as they wander slowly through the neighborhood in the evenings when Sebastian pays her a visit. His father had hardly spared the loss any attention, the death of his own _mother_, before becoming whisked away by his work duties once more. And it angers Sebastian, that his father can't see what an incredible woman his mother was, that he can't take after her and be at least a fraction as incredible.

And Sebastian's mother, well, she had never been close to the elder Mrs. Smythe. Since the divorce when Sebastian was younger, his own mother had been living in Paris, abandoning her son in favor of the high culture of France. He hadn't really cared about that, either, until his grandmother was gone. Because then he wished that he could have a mother like that, one who pinched his cheeks and made him dinner, told him stories about her early life and listened to him recount his days at school. He suddenly yearned for it; someone who would just _listen_, because he didn't have it anymore.

At Dalton, no one asks about his family, and he doesn't willingly share. They don't ask him anything, in fact, except _can you hit a G sharp_ and _did you finish the trig homework?_ He prefers it this way. Sebastian has never been the caring-and-sharing, friendly type, and if his new classmates are going to enable this trait, then it is all for the better.

Everything goes to shit when Blaine Anderson becomes involved.

He can picture his grandmother's face perfectly, the utter disappointment that would sculpt her features and the sadness in her normally warm, kind voice. _You're better than this, Sebastian,_ she would say. _You're a good boy, Sebastian. Why are you doing this? You need to make things right._

The thought makes him want to cry.

God knows, he's made enough people cry himself, and he's never shed as much as a single tear. But now, here he is, sitting alone in an auditorium with a boy in the hospital because of him. His teammates have left him, and it is all his fault, this mess that he's landed them in.

He's so ashamed.

His grandmother would tell him _how_ to fix things. She would know just what to say to remind him that even though he's screwed up, he _isn't_ the villain, as much as everyone else says he is. He just wants her to call and comfort him, talk some sense into his muddled brain and lead him in the right direction. Without her, he is...lost.

The stage is vacant, now. He doesn't know how long he's been seated like this, staring at the dark walls of the McKinley High Auditorium, but he has nowhere else to go, no friends to head back to or family to see. If life were fair, he would be able to call his grandmother, but he _can't_, because she is gone, and so he sits.

An immeasurable amount of time passes. His mind is blank, and all he can feel is regret, but he doesn't know what to _do_. He stares at the empty stage in front of him, remembers the smug faces of the New Directions and the resigned looks from the rest of the Warblers as they one by one stood and left him. They had all paid their dues, bid their apologies.

So why couldn't he?

The sound of the auditorium door banging shut startles him out of his wallowing, and when he turns, there is a familiar figure hovering at the end of the aisle, shoulders hunched and palms tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

"You're still here," Nick calls out, slowing making his way down the steps to stop at the end of Sebastian's row. He had been one of the most adamant in expressing his remorse, his words from earlier in the day still echoing through Sebastian's mind.

_Come on, Sebastian. Give it up._

Now, though, he is the only one who has come back. His features are twisted into a somewhat concerned expression, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes imploring, and Sebastian can't even meet his gaze, because he shouldn't have to deal with this, the sympathy and the _pity._ He doesn't want pity.

"And you came back," Sebastian responds blankly, staring resolutely at the stage before him. He hears Nick shuffle forward slightly, and then a body is dropping into the chair beside him, their elbows jostling and the rustle of fabric emanating throughout the empty auditorium.

"Someone had to," Nick mumbles.

"Not really."

He can feel Nick's gaze burning a hole into the side of his temple, but Sebastian never falters, his expression remaining strikingly neutral. What is the boy expecting? A "thank you?" An apology? Because Sebastian isn't willing to give either of those. He has far too much pride, even with the tidal wave of regret that has enveloped him.

"Look," Nick says carefully, "you and I both know that we've fucked up. Royally, in fact. And as much as it kills you to admit it, I can tell that you're sorry, because you might be a dick, but you're not heartless. So why don't you just _say_ so? Apologizing doesn't mean that you're weak, Sebastian."

"Except it does," Sebastian says simply, and really, that's what this comes down to. He cannot admit defeat.

Beside him, Nick shoots him an incredulous look. "You're impossible."

Sebastian shrugs. "Nobody asked you to try and see otherwise."

There's a part of him that is screaming, telling him to _shut up_ and just fucking accept the advice, to do the right thing for once in his sorry life. But externally, he is fighting it back, forcing himself to maintain the cold, careless exterior, and for what? His _dignity_? Nick is right; he is impossible, because what the hell is even trying to prove?

_Give it up._

He's already lost, hasn't he?

The white flag is already halfway raised.

"Nobody's going to forgive me," he says suddenly. Nick's head lifts, the surprise evident on his features, but he quickly schools his expression, and this time, it is into one of understanding.

"You'd be surprised what even the smallest apology can do."


End file.
